


with care

by harklights



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 02:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19984885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harklights/pseuds/harklights
Summary: during a moment of stolen leisure.





	with care

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this drabble was entirely me wanting to give harrow's hair the celebrity treatment via gratuitous descriptions. the t rating is because viren is hopelessly into harrow.

Undone from its tight bun, Harrow’s hair fell some inches past his shoulders, clasped here and there with gold coils that glittered or vanished depending on the slide of his dreads, the fall of locs which obscured each other in thick curtains. Where Viren has always kept his own hair short, he’s paid witness to the growth of Harrow’s over the years: never cut since the day they were first twisted together, when Harrow traded in the loose & dark nimbus akin to what the young prince Ezran sported for this style instead. Viren quite liked the length now. The movement of it. The very rare times when Harrow fussed in public, tossing his dreadlocks back or pulling them over one shoulder to settle with soft patters. The way they filled thickly between Viren’s fingers rather than falling silkily through. Rarely looking in disarray even after just waking.

_How kingly._

A frightfully casual thought, but then they were doing a frightfully casual thing. Harrow sat in a chair. Viren stood behind him, their heights staggered enough to allow him easy access to Harrow’s head. They’d dragged a little table near enough for the king to set a book and a vial of amber down. No comb or brush. When first agreeing to this little task, Viren knew from experience it would be the work of hands alone rather than tools, though it had been a while since he personally attended anyone in this way, let alone his king. Returning was to such a task … quite domestic, and perhaps both beneath and above his station at once. A chore for a body servant; attention best dolled out by family, a son, a _wife._ Viren hadn’t touched his own children’s hair in years.

 _Well,_ he thought as that inkling of domesticity tipped sharply into prickling intimacy, which he quickly disavowed. He pushed unnecessary thoughts out of mind and uncorked the amber vial of oil, tipping some of the stuff onto his fingertips. Wrestling for a moment on where to start, he simply started, picking up the first loc his fingers and beginning to gently rub the oil into it, seeing the immediate shine it took. The rest fell into repetition. Simple, menial. He was no stranger to how he could pour his focus into very narrow things.

Once when parted at random, Viren saw a section of hair twined with deep red instead of metallic gold. The same royal red which flew on every Katolis banner, yet unmatched with the other adornments, standing out like a ruby against obsidian. When questioned Harrow simply said, with the ease of someone who sometimes found an errant accessory days later, that it had likely gotten left there from a previous styling, and undid the thread with a few tight yanks. The motions seemed harsh and when Viren twisted his hand closer to Harrow’s scalp, Harrow made a rumble of pleasure which he stilled to hear. He felt the heaviness of hair tumbling over the back of his hand, the snake of one loc sneaking beneath his sleeve like some wayward caress. The task had fallen into pleasant monotony, but that sound woke a spark of sharp awareness in him. Suddenly the slick of oil on his fingers, even if this was citrusy and faintly sweet, reminded him of … other things. The scent itself was one he’d long associated with the man, as signature as any perfume, waking up poignant memories.

When he paused for a little too long, Harrow blindly reached up to pat his hand, clearly unfocused from his reading. The brief glide of their skin together failed to grant any more composure.

Harrow asked, very kindly. “Do you need to rest your leg?” 

“No,” said Viren with an effort, a curl of heat on his face, though it was like the words brought attention to the slight ache in his limb, the twinging at his knee from standing unassisted for long. But it was manageable if he shifted his weight with care. Hardly an effort to put negligible discomfort out of mind.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You’re very pleasant.” Harrow said of Viren’s brief responses, his tone rife with things that Viren couldn’t completely read without full sight of his face. Instead of making guesses Viren slowly, very brazenly, pressed firm pressure against Harrow’s scalp. Harrow made no sound this time but canted obviously into the sensation, never shy about taking pleasure in a way that unfurled warmth in the pit of Viren’s stomach. “Others aren’t this thorough. Ez can hardly sit still for any grooming.”

“He’s still at that age. Sitting still is a challenge even if he knows he should do it.”

“And he’s tender headed too. The last time we braided his hair for an event he cried halfway through and held Bait so tight that the poor thing popped right out of his arms.”

“Perhaps not the best phrasing around me. I’ve thought about popping that toad myself. There is a spell or two…”

Harrow made a short and scandalized noise, layered with enough amusement for Viren to smile at.


End file.
